


Song of the Stars, Whumptober 2020

by MaverickWerewolf



Category: Nova Refuge, Original Work
Genre: Collars, Gen, Hostage Situations, Mutation, Restraints, Whump, Whumptober, Whumptober 2020, tied up
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-06
Updated: 2020-10-06
Packaged: 2021-03-08 06:21:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26847346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaverickWerewolf/pseuds/MaverickWerewolf
Summary: Whumptober prompt fills set in Nova Refuge, my original sci-fi setting, of my upcoming sci-fi series Song of the Stars. More tags to be added as I potentially write more prompt fills.
Comments: 1
Kudos: 2
Collections: Whumptober 2020





	Song of the Stars, Whumptober 2020

**Author's Note:**

> Since I'm doing prompt fills of SGA and my two main original settings (Wulfgard and Nova Refuge) for Whumptober, here's the collection for the Nova Refuge ones.
> 
> First chapter prompt:  
> No 2. IN THE HANDS OF THE ENEMY  
> “Pick Who Dies” | Collars | Kidnapped

Finally, the bag came off his head. Into his vision spilled dim, disgusting light, like the dismal illumination of a torture chamber – which fit, seeing as how this was a torture chamber.

Henry Darrow kept his head low, every fiber of his very being held together by pure panic. He took a few breaths – not deep enough and too fast, each one cold and crisp – and tried to collect himself and utterly failed.

“Wake up, Doctor,” said the ever calm and vaguely amused voice of Agent Borya, persistent bastard that he was, as the shadow of his tall frame paced about the dreary torture chamber made of old stone and rusting pipes, lit only by sickly yellowish lights overhead, sparse and setting Henry in a grotesque spotlight. “I have a very important decision for you to make.”

Blinking, Henry’s vision slowly came into focus – just in time for another light to flash on several feet away from him, straight ahead. Under that light, strapped roughly into varying degrees of assorted restraints, were four figures in their own separate heaps in the floor.

Four.

His teammates. His motley steadfast companions that he so often liked to pretend that he _dis_ liked.

First was the lovely Andrea Winters, her auburn hair for once a mess but eyes mistaking great defiance; then Lieutenant Rivers, looking angry and determined as usual, especially when biting down on a crude rope gag; Renfaelya, a Sarran, her feathered wings bent and twisted and tied behind her back just like her wrists…

And the one that made Henry hurt the worst: their leader, Major John Shephard, clad in black like always, though he had been stripped down to a simple t-shirt. Unlike the others, who looked varying degrees of terrified or angry and squirmed or twisted in their restraints for some reason or another, Shephard sat there calmly, arms and ankles in heavy chains all connected to one another vaguely resembling someone hog-tied. He even had a heavy leather collar around his neck with its own separate chain, like some dangerous animal.

Henry’s gaze lingered on Shephard, who looked right back at him without a word.

“Ah yes,” Borya said, stopping just under the lights near Shephard and giving him a look. “We had to make some special arrangements for your…” Borya paused and looked at Shephard. “What would you even _call_ him?” he said, half thoughtful, half disdainful.

“What do you want with them?” Henry blurted before he knew what he was even thinking. “This has – this has _nothing_ to do with them, I thought you wanted information that’s in _my_ head, this has nothing to do with them!”

“On the contrary, Doctor, it has everything to do with them. You’ve been incredibly stubborn, and since we managed to capture all your friends when they so boldly attempted to mount a rescue, I decided that this might jolt your faulty memory.”

Borya smiled then, a cruel and ugly smile, as he turned to face the lineup. Henry squirmed in the creaking leather straps around his wrists and ankles, keeping him held fast against a straight-backed chair, breathing so fast he bordered on hyperventilating and making himself pass out. Maybe if he did, Borya would stop.

Who was he kidding?

But the look Borya gave them, that hint of a wicked grin – he knew what he was thinking, didn’t he?

“Oh no – oh nonono, you can’t do this, you’re insane— I told you I’m not even that _brave_ , I would tell you if I could!” Henry screamed.

“I still don’t believe you, Doctor. If your memory was truly that poor, Xarkon wouldn’t have had you on these projects to begin with. Now…”

Taking one step back, Borya swept a hand over the lineup.

And he said with another smile, “Pick who dies.”

Henry’s mind came to a crashing halt. He knew this was coming, but his mind still crashed to a halt.

“Wh… what?” he almost whimpered. “I can’t do that – you can’t make me do that—”

“You’re mistaken, Darrow. Pick who dies or I’ll pick for you. Who goes first? Shall we trade one for each project I want information about?” He shrugged. “I’m a reasonable man, Doctor; I’m willing to make a trade.”

Anger suddenly rose in his throat, confused, wretched little anger that didn’t know what to do with itself except set his fear on fire and then throw itself into the blaze, and Henry found himself hunched over in that chair, every muscle in his body taut as his sputtering became caught between begging and hurling insults.

“Listen to me— I don’t _remember_ all the incredibly important and groundbreaking projects I worked on for Xarkon because _there were too many of them_ and that’s what records are for! I can’t imagine a gun-toting unevolved specimen of Humanity like you to _begin_ to comprehend _any_ of my projects, but maybe since you’re a meatheaded Zygbari militant you can at least understand that Xarkon is the _prime_ military superpower of Terra Nova and that they have so many weapons programs going at _once_ that it would—”

“Perhaps her,” Borya said, calm as ever, his eyes set on Andrea. In an instant, Henry shut up.

No one moved. In her restraints and her gag, Andrea didn’t say a word or make a sound. She didn’t even breathe. Henry swallowed so loudly it seemed to echo across everything, his blood pounding in his ears, and an odd sound worked its way up his throat.

He couldn’t _pick_. He couldn’t do that.

So what did he do? Someone was going to die.

 _Oh God_.

And, at length, Borya chuckled. “No,” he said, turning and taking a few steps back toward his hostages. “I already chose who would go first long before I asked you. If you can’t pick, as I said: I will choose for you.”

With that, he reached down and picked something up off the floor: the chain to the collar around Shephard’s neck. As Borya pulled it taut and used it to drag Shephard over into the same would-be spotlight as Henry, all Shephard did was shift slightly in his many chains and grunt a small, pained noise when the collar tightened.

Then Borya stopped. Shephard lay almost right under Henry’s nose now, flat on his back, pulse visibly jumping in his throat as he swallowed and seemed determined to avoid looking into anyone’s eyes. Henry felt sick.

“You actually care about him the most, don’t you?” Borya said, grinning wider now. “Ironic, someone like you forming such close bonds with a Victorian hotshot like him.”

Everyone else struggled harder now. In his restraints, Rivers let loose a muted cry through his gag and weakly tried kicking his tied-up legs, for all the good it did. Andrea tried to sit up and fell right back over. Renfaelya looked like a perfect picture of utmost rage, chest heaving.

“Don’t,” Henry said as slowly as he could manage in his rising panic beading cold sweat all over his forehead. “ _Don_ _’t_ do this, I swear to God I’ll – I’ll figure something out, they buried the memories or something, they repressed them, it’s like programming, I just—”

“Need to be properly motivated?” Borya said, drawing a pistol from a flap holster on his belt. “That can be arranged.”

The snapping _crack_ of a gunshot split the air, and without even meaning to, Henry screamed. He didn’t know if he screamed words or a word or just a scream, but he screamed.

On the floor, Shephard went rigid. He coughed up a choked wheeze as blood pooled rapidly on his chest. Not that Henry could make out much with his vision a wild blur of tears.

Then Borya knelt, a knife suddenly in one hand, and cut the rope gag in Shephard’s mouth. Once again, he rose to his feet and started walking away, into the darkness of the room.

“You have three hours to watch him die and remember what I want to know,” said Borya’s voice from the shadows, just before a heavy door fell shut.

Silence.

Silence except the unflattering assortment of panting and wheezing and whimpering from Henry and the pained, labored breathing from Shephard. Each ragged gasp served to remind Henry this, all this, was squarely his fault.

“John— John?” Henry almost squeaked. “ _John_ – oh God John I’m sorry, I’m – I’m—”

It took him a few tries, a few agonized wheezes, before Shephard managed to rasp, “Henry.”

“This is all my fault I’m sorry I’m so sorry you’re _dying_ and now it’s gonna haunt me in my nightmares forever why did he—”

“Henry…”

“Shut _up_ John you’re _dying_ will you please just not say you’re okay!?” Henry shrieked, completely lost to hysterics.

John swallowed loudly, blood trickling from his mouth, and an absurd, rueful little smile tugged at his face. “You remember that time you told me about… redundant organs—” he coughed, once, so hard it sent a spurt of blood into the air and Henry all but wailed.

“What? _What!?_ Redundant— what does that have to do with—?!”

His mind crashed to a halt again. The act of actually being upset suddenly stopped, and he sobbed stupidly, grossly, for a second before he snorted loudly and then scoffed so hard he almost passed out. That got Shephard to put on a half-grin made of bloodied teeth, eyes pinched shut in pain.

“Please don’t tell me you have another heart packed away in there somewhere,” Henry croaked.

“I thought that’d make you happy,” Shephard said, voice low and weak.

“Oh m— oh my _God_ , John, that’s… that’s so disgusting when the hell did you grow that, wh— why would the mutations— oh _God_.”

Blood had completely darkened Shephard’s shirt now, pooling there and oozing down his sides and absolutely everywhere in such a way that Henry’s stomach turned. Couldn’t he still bleed out even if he had some kind of freakish disgusting Slashrim backup heart somewhere? Couldn’t—?

“But we’re still in chains,” Henry moaned.

“Working on a solution to that too,” Shephard rasped.

Of course. Of course he was. Perfect. Yes. What, had he swallowed a tracker? An extra one, since Borya had rid them of the ones in their suits? Who the hell even knew with him?

Henry just hoped he was right.

**Author's Note:**

> [If you enjoy my writing, be sure to check out more (especially my original works) on my blog!](https://maverick-werewolf.tumblr.com/)


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